I have things to do. We’re close enough; it’s time to make plans. It’s time to rip the fucking Band-Aid off and do something.
I stand, throw on my boots and my hat, grab the note from the bag, and then make for the door. I grab one of the little cards and then slip out into the evening.
The parking lot is half-dead and half-forgotten, the kind of place that exists just long enough for people like me to passthrough it and pretend we weren’t ever here. A rusted, blue sedan sits near the office. A truck with a broken taillight is parked a few rooms over, looking pitiful.
The motel sign flickers overhead, buzzing and failing in uneven intervals, bathing everything in a dull red wash that makes the world feel like it’s already bleeding out.
I pull my hood up around my hat and keep my head down as I cross the lot. My heart rate is steady, my head feels clear, and my arm aches—but not nearly as bad as it did.
As I round the corner to head toward the tiny gas station, I stop.
My eyes land on a man, sitting beside the stop sign, with a black backpack and a cardboard sign beside him. There’s a dog on a leash next to him. A car pulls up to the intersection and hands him a few dollars.
I creep back into the shadows of the building, watching him closely as the intersection clears. The panhandler shoves the bills into his pocket, then stands, turning and saying something to the dog.
It thumps its tail, and the two of them head toward a small parking lot just to the south of me. I stay where I am, watching the man tote the bag and lead the gray Pitbull toward…
A brand-new truck.
Well, that would figure.I purse my lips as I watch the guy smash a key fob, the flashing lights illuminating his dirty pants. He opens the back door, pats the seat, and then drops the backpack on the floor. He reaches in and starts the engine, rolling down the windows.
I expect him to leave, hop in the truck, and go.
But he doesn’t. The gray-headed man climbs right back out, smooths out his T-shirt, and then heads for the gas station.
What’s in that backpack?
I chew the inside of my cheek, knowing that it’s a risk. That’s a big ass dog in there. But my feet are moving before I can stop myself, and as Panhandler Man makes it into the gas station…
I make it to his truck.
I pull out one of my granola bars before I ever make it to the window and start talking sweetly. “Hey buddy,” I say to the dog, who perks up when he sees me. “What’re you doing?”
He sits up, panting and entirely too happy to see me.
“Look what I got,” I hold out the granola bar, letting the dog sniff it.
He’s clearly used to being around a lot of strangers. I guess that’s what happens when you make it your life’s work to pretend to be poor for a living. I toss the bar through the window, letting it land on the far side. When the dog turns around to grab the granola bar, I hop on the running boards, reach in through the open window, and pluck the heavy bag up with my good hand.
Fuck yeah.
I don’t know what I’m going to find, but I don’t worry about it right then. I take off to the shadows behind the motel and then drop to my knees, unzipping it.
Holy shit.My eyes are adjusted to the late evening, but I blink a few times, just to make sure I’m seeing it right.
Cash.A lot of it.
I don’t count it. I just grab the wads and stick them into my pockets, not stopping until the whole thing is empty. I don’t feel a fucking inkling of guilt for robbing a dude pretending to be broke on the corner.
Not right now, anyway.
I fumble with the front pockets of the bag, just to see if I’ll bethatlucky.
And I am. My fingers connect with the outline of a cell phone, and I pull it out, the screen illuminating. The background isthe man, all cleaned up, his arms wrapped around three very scantily clad women.
Douche bag.
I finish going through the bag, and then toss it off into the bushes. I swipe to unlock the screen of the phone and breathe a sigh of relief when there’s no passcode. I lean against the back of the motel office and pull out the piece of paper.
